


As Deep as the Ocean

by BlackTieCasual



Series: Semi-Canon Overwatch [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brainwashing, Depression, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Female Characters, Femdom, Femslash, Français | French, Gratuitous Smut, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, My First Smut, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Female Character, Pain, Painful Sex, Painplay, Past Brainwashing, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Depression, Scarification, Scars, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Shameless Smut, Smut, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackTieCasual/pseuds/BlackTieCasual
Summary: Angela Ziegler reflects upon the various traumas that tore her apart, and the women who helped put her back together again. Final updates 2/1-3.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain & Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Moira O'Deorain & Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: Semi-Canon Overwatch [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119581
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

Angela Ziegler felt small sitting in the windowsill of her bedroom in a big, black cable-knit sweater. Watching the restless waves crash against the rocky cliff face outside her bedroom, picking at the fraying hem of her old faded jeans, it all felt pointless. Here was the ocean, slamming again and again into this immensely stable stone structure, only to fall back to the main body of water in slight waves.

She had been trying for a while to feel anything besides apathy, but she had set her aspirations aside as she watched one more wave thrash against the slate. It was endless, there was a wave for waking up, and a wave for brushing her teeth. Following those were waves for picking out clothes, for fixing her hair and makeup. There was a wave for pretending she was okay, and a wave for watching the ocean outside her window. She hated how deeply she understood the ocean.

There was a single comfort she found in the ceaseless movement of the waters below: they remained beautiful regardless of shipwrecks, regardless of oil spills or hopelessly crash-landed planes. No matter what hid in the deepest trenches of the sea before her, the surface of it was always as beautiful as she remembered it being. She hoped that she could remain as beautiful as she was for as long as possible, despite the waning confidence she had in her appearance. She hoped to look beautiful, despite the pain, anger, and fear she hid below. Despite the bullet-wound scar, despite her new home, despite all of it, she hoped.

Soon enough she had rested two fingers against the scar, a single pale crater at the left side of her waist, between her hips and her ribs. She traced the borders of it, feeling the way the hard white skin gave way to the softer, peachier skin surrounding. Without taking her eyes off the waves, she saw the night she had earned it… No, the night it was thrust upon her. Furrowing her brow at the memory, she pulled her fingers away and tried to remember something less painful. A distraction was better than nothing.

Suddenly, a memory swam its way up to her surface. She was ten years old, sailing with her father off the western coast of France. It had been a nice vacation, she had been spending more time with her father than she usually got, which had given her plenty of energy.

She was playing in the hull of the small vessel when it ran against a spire of rock, hidden by the depths but close enough to the surface to crash through the lower wall and begin flooding the boat. Angela remembered the scraping noise, the cracking of splitting wood and the horrible creak of metal giving way. The impact had knocked her off balance, and by the time she knew what was going on she was on her back in a pool of water which was creeping up towards her face.

She had never struggled with a door so much in her life. Sopping wet, Angela wrestled with the entrance’s doorknob as the lights flickered out one by one. By the time she was back up on land, the room would be darker than she could ever know, sitting at the bottom of the ocean. The only silver lining of it was that the water was so effective at obscuring the horrible things beneath. It had happened, but it was over now, and she would never have to see that horrible little vessel again.

Angela rested her fingers against the stiff, pale skin, and thought hard about burying the imperfection deep below the surface.


	2. Chapter 2

It had happened during a skirmish in the streets of Paris, a smattering of Overwatch agents against something newer and more dangerous than Talon had deployed before: a sniper with nearly-perfect aim. Jesse McCree and Jack Morrison had deduced that the shots were coming from the fourth-story window of an expensive apartment complex. There would definitely be some kind of defense on the way up, but the real obstacle would be getting someone in the door at ground-level without a well-placed bullet taking them down. All this, along with a separation between Overwatch Agents. Genji Shimada and Angela Ziegler found themselves in the abandoned lobby of a concert hall, watching as Morrison and McCree ducked behind dead cars in the road. They were moving towards the entrance, but slowly. Meanwhile, Angela watched as her shadow and Genji’s danced along the back wall of the lobby in the bright russet light of sunset. They were safe, but as soon as any of the four moved out of cover, the mysterious new Talon agent would know.

“I might have to be the one to take a risk on this. We need her firing again, even if it only buys us a moment of progress,” Genji mumbled, voice metallic and muffled as tubes full of coolant and fuel pumped overtime throughout his bionically-enhanced form. He pressed himself against the wall of the lobby in nervous frustration, glancing at Angela and searching for some sign of confidence from the tall blond medic. She seemed unsure, her opinion of the risk clouded by her romantic past with the cyborg ninja. Genji owed her his life, and something within him said it was time to repay his debt to her by finding the sniper and saving the team. Ringing out from the back of his mind was the voice of his mentor, a calm, tinny voice with a slow cadence. Tekhartha Zenyatta had warned him before about rushing into battle.

“You need to stay close to me, in case you get hurt.” Angela tried not to give too much away when it came to her anxiety on the battlefield, but she had seen Genji in action, and he was a glass cannon. If the sniper managed to land a shot on the young man, he would need to retreat or find a safe place to heal. She respected her ex’s ambition, however begrudgingly. With his sleek new body cascaded in the light of the sunset outside, he looked respectable and intimidating. She couldn’t help but feel some familiar romantic ache as the plates of his form reflected the gold and red of the lobby’s interior. Eventually, they came to an agreement: Genji would make a run for the exit of the lobby, and Angela would support him for as long as she could without staying out in the open. The tension was reaching a fever pitch as Genji diverted energy to his legs and poised himself for the run to the lobby’s exit and the apartment block’s entrance. After a moment, breath and thoughts gathered, Genji was off with Angela flying close behind him. A single shot rang out and shattered one of the large emporium windows that made up most of the lobby’s front face, sending broken glass flying into the medic’s face.

Angela stumbled, closing her eyes and mouth tight to avoid any stray shards as she fell onto her side and tumbled. She heard the gasp of her ex-lover as two more shots rang out and echoed through the Parisian alleyways. Angela opened her eyes to find Genji moving her quickly into cover, two bullet tracer-lines indicating that Genji had stopped two shots only milliseconds before they would take her out. Without a word, Genji jumped through the broken window, on the hunt for the sniper. Disoriented, panicking, Angela jumped up and called out after him, “Genji—!”

And just like that, it all went dead. Angela had been knocked to the ground by a bullet, piercing her left side and carving a clean, circular hole into her petite figure. She couldn’t it find it within her to scream as she looked down at the wound, her eyes wide and each breath hitching in her throat. All she could do was direct her gaze up to the swinging entrance door of the complex. All she could do was watch as a puff of purple smoke erupted out from the fourth-story window, followed shortly by the lifeless body of Genji Shimada. It plummeted quickly to the streets below, weighed down by metal and circuits. The only mercy was that his arrival was obscured by the cars left abandoned on the street.

McCree and Morrison were already retreating, with the sniper distracted by her short-lived battle with the cyborg. With all he allies gone, assuming she was dead, Angela used her time in shock to devise a game plan for the coming hours. She placed her pistol at her side, ready for use defensively, or as last-resort pain relief. She could feel the bullet inside of her, pitted deep within the core of her body and burning like a dying ember. There was blood everywhere, and it was too much for her advanced medical tech to heal on the spot. She either needed to escape, or… She ran her fingers over the pistol again, too tense and afraid to pick it up. Night would fall within the hour, and if nobody came back to claim her, she would end up facing the sniper head-on.


	3. Chapter 3

Suddenly, it was nighttime. What little light was left must have been beaming in from a full moon. Angela cursed herself silently for passing out, but was too dizzy to compose herself. Her medical tech had run out of power while she slept, and by the time she woke she was in just as critical a condition as she had been before. She had reached the end of her rope, laying against a wall in a dimly-lit concert hall lobby. Her surviving comrades had only lived at the expense of Genji’s sacrifice, and they had certainly assumed by now that Angela had been taken out as well. As far from betrayal as it was, it was still abandonment and there was no way she could look past that. Her breaths were shallow, each one sending just a bit of blood trickling from that deep well that was her wound. She tried her best to look around the room, mustering what little was left of her previous adrenaline rush and wasting it on making out shapes in the darkness. From the almost-black of the room before her, a voice rang out.

“Angela…” It must have been a delusion, it sounded so familiar. Perhaps this was death, the forgotten voice of some old friend reaching out and beckoning her to join them on the other side. She tried to place the voice, recognizing it calmly and nodding as she pinned it. This was the voice of Amelie LaCroix, the wife of former-Overwatch agent Gerard LaCroix. Angela’s mind wandered to the morning she had heard the news: Gerard had been found by his maid with a bullet in his head. She had waited until the afternoon before checking up on him, concerned that he may have been sleeping off a hangover or some annoying sickness. He had been found dead, his wife was missing, and the security for their bedroom had been completely disabled the night before. Everyone assumed that Talon had done it, and that they had killed Amelie after interrogating her. How frustrating it must have been to find that she had no special information, that she was nothing but a Parisian socialite and a fading star. When she was no longer landing principal roles for l’Opera de Paris, the prima ballerina married rich and managed to land Gerard. She had told people that he was her personal spy, an international agent working secretive missions under Overwatch.

“Angela…” The fondest memory Angela had with the pair was a night they had taken the Swiss doctor out for a drink. Angela remembered finding it unfair that two gorgeous people could just connect one day, that their wedding was only a month away. She stared at them from across a low glass table, admiring the way they fit in with the decor of the ritzy bar they had brought her to. She could have always afforded to drink at places like this, but she much preferred the grungier scene of the cheap bars down in Zurich. It had been so long since she had gone on pub-crawls with friends, since she had shunned her family’s wealth and engaged in a bit of poverty tourism. The truth of the matter was that decadence scared her. Gerard and Amelie were different, though. They weren’t getting blackout drunk, vomiting on the floor of some trashy pop-punk dance hall. They were serene, whispering dirty things to one another in their native language while other classy snobs danced slowly on the floor only feet away. The calm of it all made Angela sick. She had always drank like her father always drank, and she was convinced it was supposed to be uglier than this. When it all came to a head, she stood up in her little black dress and excused herself, setting her virgin drink on the table and explaining that she just needed to head to the restroom. Amelie nodded, leaning close and whispering something to Gerard before standing as well. They went as a pair.

“Angela…” As soon as they were alone, they were kissing. Breathy groans worked their way out of locked lips, making way for hurried, heavy admissions of desire and lust. Amelie played at the buttons on the front of her trendy blouse, her fashionable slacks already threatening to slide from her wide hips to her excited knees. Soon enough, Angela’s dress had been worked up to her midriff, her panties partway down her thighs as she huffed her essence against the shoulder of her sudden lover. It was all coming apart so fast, from the former alcoholic to the engaged French royalty to the empty, pristine vestibule leading into the bathroom. They weren’t even inside it yet.

She pushed the olive-skinned woman away, suddenly afraid that this wasn’t what either of them wanted. Amelie had someone to be faithful to, and the taste of the booze on her tongue made the doctor feel thirsty in a way she might never recover from. It had to end there.

And then, suddenly, Angela remembered for the first time in years the last words she had ever heard Amelie speak.

Suddenly, everything was happening all at once, as the figure in the shadows stepped forth and revealed her deep lavender skin, and her bright yellow eyes. The sniper was standing before Angela’s dying body, wearing the face of a woman who could have been her lover. Now, it was the face of a murderer, and it repeated that same phrase from so long ago in a sinister new tone.

“I’ve wanted this for far longer than you could ever know.”


	4. Chapter 4

Angela woke up cold, with a deathly headache. Moaning in pain, trying to get her eyes to focus on something, anything, she realized she was laying in a bed. The room was dark, and the blankets laid across her body were heavy and warm. There was a window at the far end of the room on the left wall, across from a door on the right. The wallpaper was purple, and well-camouflaged against it was the supple violet skin of her captor. She had been leaning against the wall for a while now, totally still as she watched over the healing body of the medic.

Peeling the blanket back, the doctor found that she was nude except for a thick strip of gauze padding over her bullet wound. She didn’t feel any better than she had, but she could tell she was convalescing, and that soon the real recovery would begin. Eyes finally adjusted to the light and the blood loss, the medic poised herself to speak. Before she could even make a sound she was hushed by the sniper, who pointed towards a bottle of water on a bedside table. Slowly, without trust but in need of the care, Angela grabbed the bottle and sipped. She thought as she did, wondering why Amelie had saved her after murdering countless civilians and taking Genji’s life. Could this be some personal choice, left over from their previous encounter? Did anything of Amelie truly remain in what was undoubtedly her body?

Every little movement was painful, and Angela screamed in agony as her body tensed and writhed, surprised by the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway. There were more Talon agents here, and they were going to interrogate and reprogram Angela just as they had Amelie. She had closed her eyes in pain, but upon opening them she could just barely make out the fuzzy outline of a slender, pale geneticist with a shock of bright orange hair.

Moira O’Deorain leaned against the door frame, watching intently as Angela’s face went flush. After all this time, things had finally become clear: Moira had done this to Amelie, and her oldest intellectual rival was about to become her newest victim. The Irish scientist pursed her lips into a smug smile, a gentle chuckle pressing against her tight lips. Angela could tell she was about to faint again, and so she lied down and stared at the ceiling.


	5. Chapter 5

Angela pulled her fingers away from the pale white crater that now pocked her left side, blinking once as the waves continued to rock against the shore. With her hands on her lap, her large black sweater moved back over her midriff, covering the scar. The setting sun gave the signal that it was almost time for the doctor to retire for the day. It would e difficult, given that it had been a difficult day, and difficult days always drove Angela to stay up and collect herself.

It didn’t make sense to try and fall asleep with memories like these crowding her busy mind. They sat in the corners of her imagination and reminded her again and again of what it felt like to be made up of failure. A failure to save Genji, a failure to save herself, a failure to have accepted Amelie’s love when she had the chance, a failure to stop a shipwreck or her father’s drinking. These pieces of her past, her most formative moments, piled up quickly into the shape of a recovering Swiss doctor who could never get past her past.

She thought about getting up from the windowsill, but when confronted with this imaginary registry of her many defeats, she decided to confront the whole story. How had she gotten here? What was there to be done about any of it? To think it had been a year since she first woke up in that uncomfortable bed, with Moira in the doorway… And then what?

—

Angela Ziegler had heard from a young age that you don’t dream if you faint. According to adults, medical professors and anesthetists at the medical school she had attended, it was just a black void. She had thought at the time that this sounded legitimate, in a esoteric sort of way. Clearly, these people had more knowledge on the theory of it than the people they had put under, so it made sense that they would understand the experience better. This wasn’t true at all.

In her dream, Angela was working feverishly to help those fancy black slacks slip over the crest of Amelie’s wide olive hips. Amelie gave up on the buttons of her blouse and ended up shimmying it over her head, exposing the black lace bra that Angela had been eying all night. What torture, to trace the blurry borders of that garment through the French socialite’s slightly-sheer shirt. The waist of her lover’s pants fell to her knees, then to her calves, and then Amelie was in her underwear and Angela was pulling back in that tight black dress. It was all coming apart so fast.

“How long have you wanted this?” Angela took on a stronger tone, straightening her back and looking down her nose at the face of her partner in crime. The thrill of pulling this off in the same restaurant as Gerard, while he sat only feet away separated only by a wall, it struck Angela like a bolt of lightning.

“Please, I can’t go on without knowing how it feels to get you off…” Amelie’s voice was tense, her pitch rising with desperation as she picked her blouse and slacks up from the floor. She was wearing a set of black lace panties, as if she had somehow planned for this little infidelity to take place. Furrowing her brow, she slipped into the bathroom, the clack of her heels disappearing behind the door.

Angela smiled, knowing the cat and mouse that the former ballerina seemed to be begging for. Fixing her dress and standing tall as the dom of the encounter, the blond doctor made her way to the door and creaked it open slowly. The light inside the bathroom had been turned off, the space inside adopting an eerie dark ambiance.

“Maybe I should take the opportunity now and go tell your fiance. I doubt he would be very happy to hear that you’ve pulled this. You could convince me to stick around by begging with that pretty little mouth of yours, Princess,” Angela’s coy threat was met with silence. The lack of any sort of noise inside the bathroom was deafening, and what had once been romantic and adventurous had turned sour.

She ran a hand along the wall, unable to find a light switch. Eventually, she was able to locate the counter and the sink. If she kept up, soon enough she would find—

“My fiance..? Angela, Gerard has been dead for years.”

In an instant, the lights turned on and shot the bright white of the bathroom’s tiles into Angela’s eyes. She winced, unable for just a moment to make out the tall, curvy figure before her. The assassin’s skin was flawless, the entirety of her form colored a deep lavender. It was the same shade you might find on the lips of a choking victim, or a drowning, but it had covered her from head to toe. With her panties and bra gone, Angela could see all of her. Those wide hips that curved down into the V-shaped troughs of her mound and thighs. That thin waste that sat atop a decadently voluptuous ass. Those perky breasts, uncomplicated in their modelesque teardrop shape.

Amelie had never looked better. She had become the type of woman that Angela would dream about. Of course, the appeal was matched only by the danger, but it was clear that something of their former tension had remained beyond whatever transformation Dr. O’Deorain had put her through.

“Amelie, I want you to know that I’m sorry, and that I know I should have…” But Angela couldn’t finish the sentence. Without a warning, the doctor found herself looking up at the assassin, gaze drifting over the curves and valleys of her perfect purple body as she tensed her tongue and pressed it deep into the cunt she had fixed her lips against. She had been dominant before, but it was clear to Angela that she would never get the opportunity under the control of Amelie or Moira.

“Fuck… Are you having fun down there, Princess? You should be a good little kitty and purr for Mistress.” Hearing her words, losing all control, Angela reached down and began toying with her clit, heat building inside her like a full-body fever as she huffed against Amelie’s warm vulva. The tension was frenetic, refusing to let the doctor slow down as she moaned and groaned, eventually settling into a deep purr pressing out from her throat as she pleased her mistress. Feeling the thighs at either side of her head tense, she smiled at the thought that she must have been doing well. Pressing harder against herself, slipping finger after finger into her own hungry folds, Angela knew it was approaching fast.

Should she wait? Should she ask for permission to cum? Mistress had been so kind to her, after all, saving her life and letting her play with her cunt and taste her juices. Why did she feel so helpless against the dancer? Why hadn’t she ever encountered a love as deep as this lust?

A rocky spire bashed a hole into the hull of the ship. The bullet was lodged deep inside of her, buried in her core like the boat at the bottom of the ocean. She started to drown on Amelie’s nectar in the dark of the bathroom, struggling against the doorknob.

She woke up in the bed again, With Amelie watching her from the far wall of the room. Her fingers were wet, and a coy smile was playing at the corners of Amelie’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Recently revitalized my muse in this fic via complete overhaul, and now it's broken up into chapters. The previously existing content has been mostly rewritten and added to, and comprises the first four chapters of this eight chapter work. I'll be updating this regularly to complete the final four chapters.
> 
> Anybody willing to beta read, message me on Tumblr at duresstoimpress
> 
> Wish me luck!


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